


A Black, Serpentine Spell

by Adadzio



Series: Smut [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Gratuitous Smut, Sexual Tension, Stolen Moments
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-08-08 04:34:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 6,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7743577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adadzio/pseuds/Adadzio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of NSFW Stannis x Mel drabbles, from requests/prompts on tumblr.</p>
<p>
  <i>How could she be so destructive, as they claimed, when she made him feel alive? How could she seduce him with a black, serpentine spell when she shone brighter than copper?</i>
</p>
<p><b>ix.</b> "In the meantime my free hand will be in your breeches.”<br/><b>x.</b> There was something painfully alluring about his priestess immersed in water.<br/><b>xi.</b> “Devan! Take a gods damned walk!”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i.

Stannis has never undressed in full candlelight before. Certainly not in front of a woman. And the priestess is the most infuriating of females, peeking at him from the corner of her red eyes like a shameless vixen. “Don’t stare,” he snaps. “I didn’t want to do this.”

The foreigner has the decency to divert her gaze. “Forgive me,” she murmurs. But her scarlet robe is rustling to the floor, and he is beginning to panic. A long moment passes in silence. He is bare above the waist, but he cannot possibly remove his breeches. “Your Grace,” she calls out. As if to signal that she is undressed. As if he’s meant to pounce on her like a whoring drunkard. 

Stannis grits his teeth and marches resolutely to the pallet in his tent. He hears her padding lightly behind him, and the sound fills him with dread. By the time he finally turns and seats himself on the edge, he cannot meet her gaze. 

“Your Grace,” she says again, voice alluring and gentle. Her white hands find his clenched ones, then slide up to sinewy forearms taut with anxiety. The priestess wiggles her way between his knees, and he thinks he will die. 

“Don’t,” he growls. 

She seems surprised, and for the first time he dares to consider the perfect, overwhelming expanse of her, from soft breasts tipped with pink to an impossibly slender waist and impossibly full hips and thighs. 

_Damn it all!_

“Must we do this?” he groans. 

She blinks, and he cannot tell if she is offended by his tortured state. “As I told you, Your Grace. You must consummate your new union with R’hllor, surrender your will, and then He will bless you with the victory you seek.” 

His ears burn at the very thought. “You are not R’hllor,” he says dryly.

She takes the opportunity to lift her pale legs and straddle him, and his groin reacts to the feel of her— _she is so different from his wife, after all, in every way, soft and young and warm and pliant—_

“I am R’hllor’s instrument,” she murmurs, accented voice tickling his jaw and seeping into his ears like sweet poison. “R’hllor uses me, and his champion shall too…” He does not want to use her. He wants to seize her and toss her off his lap and cover her with those red rags, then throw himself into the cold stream outside until he’s about to drown. 

Instead he gives into his body’s instinct and cups the back of her head, kissing her stubborn and hard. He must do this, must allow her to stroke him and free him from his breeches, must allow her to coax him backwards and press her smooth chest to his. When he’s inside her he is absolutely certain he will die, because she is not just warm but  _burning—and whimpering and gasping—_ and  _so tight she is strangling the life from him—_

When he gives her his seed he knows, somehow, the truth. The priestess stills. A long moment passes and her body seems to melt into his. Her hips circle his once more, lazily, and then her fiery head buries itself in the crook of his neck. Stannis knows then—she is seeking not life from him, but soul. 

He holds her tighter. 

 


	2. ii.

“Shouldn’t priestesses avoid cavorting in the dark?”

Red eyes danced with amusement, glinting through the dust of the cellar. “It was you who followed my trail, Lord Stannis. Here I am simply going about my business.”

He scowled. “What business have you in my food stores? Answer the question, or I’ll think you truly  _are_  entertaining a rogue man down here.”

“We red priests are hardly confined to celibate misery,” she pointed out. “Your septas, on the other hand…” 

That austere mouth twitched up. “You’re thinking about the silent sisters.”

She began to move further into the musty space, shivering as she inspected each dark corner. “Sisters, septas…morbid creatures, with none of R’hllor’s fire in their loins…no life in their veins…”

“Did the temple send you to spy around my castle like a red mouse?”

Melisandre giggled. “I venture beyond their instruction.” 

“I can see that,” he said dryly. “Led by your god or by your own curiosity?“ She did not answer, content to keep him guessing. “Do not your priests say the material world is empty of meaning, that all truth can be found within the filth of ash and smoke?” 

“They can say what they like. The Lord reveals himself to us in different ways.” 

Stannis groaned, crossing sinewy arms over his chest. “Yes, I know it. My wife prattles on about nothing else, ever since your fire god forced itself onto my land.” He swept his gaze over her red figure as if to signal his distaste, but the sentiment was less than convincing. 

The priestess finally paused to gaze at him.  _Why had R’hllor led her to this godless nobleman, forcing her to suffer his droll company?_  She’d come to Dragonstone because the flames foretold a great and terrifying prophecy. More she’d learned soon enough—the king’s brother was infamous for his grim determination. His prowess as commander was no less lauded throughout the Stormlands. 

Melisandre still didn’t understand why  _this_  confounding man, of all people, had been chosen as Azor Ahai reborn. 

“Run along to your fires now,” he said wryly. His looming form seemed an invitation, or perhaps a silent challenge. The priestess was far from small or weak; R'hllor had long ago lifted up a worthless girl and made her strong. But there would be no competition with this Westorosi lord. While lean, he possessed a hulking frame, taller than the men of his own lands, and there was a sharp fire in his eye.

Sensing her chance, she stepped forward to ghost a slender hand up his chest. He tensed at the touch, grimacing impressively. “I’d rather stay a moment, Lord Stannis. I’ve come to see our meetings as a…pleasant pastime.”  

Suspicion flashed across his blue gaze, all humour forgotten. “Do you think to flatter me with such blatant impropriety?” 

The priestess lifted an eyebrow, both exasperated and amused. “R’hllor makes us man and woman…yet here we stand, ever willful of our opposite natures.” She traced the narrow length of his waist, fingers resting upon his belt. “I defy men and their rules, travelling where they tell me not to, and seeking that which they claim I cannot find…” Both their hearts were aflutter with nerves, and still Melisandre leaned up so that their lips were nearly touching. “You come to my nightfires to torture yourself, and watch me from a distance to prolong the urge…” One pale hand slipped beneath his leather doublet, finding him eager between the legs. “Now I ask  _you_  a question. When will you stop undressing me with your eyes and start using your teeth?” 

Stannis hissed as if burned. His hands finally fell upon her waist, lips clashing against hers in an awkward desperation. Soon he was raking her scarlet robes up, impatient to feel the smooth, milky flesh he’d been coveting from afar. Clumsy hands dove between her thighs and made her pant with want.  _Perhaps she had underestimated him…_

“Do not think me a  _pastime_ ,” he growled, voice low and dark. “I will show you the error of such audacity, little priestess.” Rough stone scraped against her back. This lord was like the colourless stone of his castle—hard and coarse and unyielding, all teeth and cruel caresses. 

“I pray that you do,” she gasped.By the look on his face, he was fully sincere in his promises. And she wanted him to be, though why, she could not say.  _He was hard for her, she could feel it, all she had to do was shift up and—_

The distant sound of bells filled the air.

Neither moved for a bated minute. The priestess pulled back firmly, calming her pounding heart. “Alas…such marks the hour of evening prayer.” A breathless smile tugged at her ruby lips. “It would seem you’ve missed your chance to chastise me, Lord Stannis.” 

Her stubborn companion seemed torn between lust, fury, and grudging admiration. And shame.  _That too._  Eventually he conceded defeat, removing his hands from her so that he might clench and unclench them by his sides. 

Her red boots echoed down the length of the corridor, a steady sound seeming to signal the priestess’s satisfaction. She had found what she was looking for after all. With a last look over her red shoulder, she offered him a brilliant smile. “I see now why R’hllor chooses you.” 

And then she was gone into the shadows from whence she came. 


	3. iii.

He has never seen his priestess so desperate. All it takes is his hand up her red skirts in the midst of a feast, the consequences of daring to tease him under the table.

“Your Grace,” she whispers, trying to weaken his resolve.

No. He will show no mercy. She’s been insolent tonight, caring little for propriety or respect, and that is simply unacceptable. 

Melisandre jolts slightly when he drives his fingers into her. She bites her lip hard enough to draw blood, red blood to match fiery eyes and copper hair. Their game is hidden beneath the table dressing, of course, but her breathless whimpers have begun to attract glances. “ _R’hllor,_ ” she breathes. He can tell she is trying to steady her mounting arousal by the way she focuses on the nearest candle flame, delicate hands gripping the arms of her chair. Still, her thighs grow slicker by the minute. 

Satisfied, Stannis observes the increasingly rowdy festivities below the head table, a grimace twisting his mouth. “We will not be finished here for some time.”

His words have double meaning—a threat which sends a thrill down her spine. Yet she is clever, his priestess. Slowly, slyly, she attempts to shift her hips down and rut against his palm. “Ah, ah,” he chides, voice deep and full of mockery. A rough hand pins her ivory thigh to the chair. “Not until I give you permission.”

“ _Please_ ,” Melisandre finally whines, and he realises she is closer than he thought. Her voice is still sweet and lilting, rich with the accent of the Jade Sea, yet strained enough that he considers having pity on her. 

“Please what, my lady?” 

Her cheeks flush, scarlet eyes darting about the drunken hall to ensure none have discovered her depravity. Eventually she glares at the king from the corner of her eye, maddened that his own blue gaze is calm and aloof. “Please give me _—permission.”_

“So naughty, my priestess,” he murmurs. She shivers at the words, too far gone to defend herself. “Very well. Come, if you can.” 

It takes a single roll of her hips and his thumb brushing her  _there,_  and then her pale thighs are trembling involuntarily, locked together in helpless ecstasy. Stannis forces a goblet of wine to her mouth with his free hand. It does little to muffle her cries, yet he is far from mortified. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   _[[More of this Stannis/Mel](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Farchiveofourown.org%2Fseries%2F289124&t=NGFhM2VjMzcwYzQ4OWMyYThhODZhYjU0NzE4ODQ1MjE1MTE3MzQ3ZCxBZ3NYaW5vUQ%3D%3D)]_


	4. iv.

He waits upon her for several long minutes.

 _Very well._ It is not the first time the priestess has dared slight his authority, snubbing his calls as if they’re no more than wind. _The infuriating witch._

Then a full hour passes, and he decides he cannot tolerate such an insult.

“I’ve asked your counsel this morn,” he says pointedly, stomping into her rooms. “The king seeks to honour your voice, and you choose to stare at your hearth?” 

She does not even pause whatever strange things she’s doing with her hands in the fire. “It is early yet, Sire, the early devotions cannot be rushed. My duty is first to R’hllor.”

“My court’s still too heretical for you, is that it?” 

“You forget I am bound to the temple. I cannot simply forsake that servitude.” 

“You can’t do without a collar at your neck,” he retorts. 

Finally her head turns, eyes shining in disbelief. There he sees his betrayal reflected, harsh and clear before it is clouded over by her fury. 

 _HER fury?_ Hells, she’s already stained his sigil with her red god, will it be his house words she claims next? The fury is his by right, she can at least leave him that! Instead she stands numbly, leaving him nothing but guilt and shame. By the time the apology rises to his lips, she's long escaped to the fire in her bedchamber. 

 _Forget fury._  His is the bloody regret. 

That evening he works up the humility to visit. She does not turn from her post by the blazing fire, does not falter in prayer, only feeds her captivating voice to the flames. “The hearts of your faithful are consumed in sorrow, in the darkness of night. Where is the gleam of your fire, beloved R’hllor? Show us the beauty of your brilliance.” She fails to notice that her prayer is already answered as she stands illuminated, that it is found within tangled red braids, upon cheeks painted ruddy by the heat. 

His footsteps are more careful than usual as he walks up behind her. 

“Infidels and demons arise in every land,” she prattles endlessly, “winter envelops us all…”  Again, the apology is stuck in his throat, and he wonders how he can reach her. “Guide us to your truth— ”

Violently startled is she at the feel of lips upon her pale throat, but it is only a second before her body relaxes into indifference once more.  _Stubborn sorceress_. The kiss is long and unhurried, and she involuntarily tilts her head to offer more of her neck. On and on the prayer goes, spilling from lips like honey, leaving them more breathless by the minute.  

“The universe is darkened with the dust of sin…yet praised be the Lord…were it not for the night, for the wickedness of man, how would the heat of your truth prevail?” Her voice catches as a rough hand finds her hip, as another arm slides around and over her belly. It rests there a dizzying moment. “Still I weep, for your warriors are few— ” Suddenly his hand plunges down, a graceless caress finds its way between her thighs, and he hears the slightest gasp. Calloused fingers trap her there, unmoving, but somehow she finds the control to continue.

“Truly I have heard your call, Lord…and now is the face of Azor Ahai flaming with the heat of passion, with the fire of your shining sword…”  He pulls her back against him, and she _must_  feel him pulsing with life,  _must_  realise he’s not just a king to breathe fire into, but a living, aching man with blood coursing through his veins. “He will rise up in faithfulness at the place of sacrifice…and of all the people…there shall be kindled in their veins a fire…a fire that sets aflame the world… _oh_.” His fingers have begun moving, slow and torturous upon her skin, and he feels that she, too, is living and burning. “L-Lord of Light,” her voice is a whisper now, “Look upon my sins with mercy…I beg the graces of your forgiveness…”

The fire is blocked as Stannis shifts before her. “As does this king to his lady,” he sighs. 

When his knees give way, a rare panic crosses her face. “It is obscene, a blasphemy. You should be kneeling before R’hllor, not me.” Her hands seem so delicate as he takes them in his own, but he knows better than to forget her strength. 

“So my priestess shall call me wicked. But let me first kiss her hands and seek her pardon.”

Her scarlet eyes seem to glow. “Then shall my king think  _me_  wicked?” 

Still kneeling, he struggles to find the hem of her gown, lost in the endless silk that flows around her like a bloody river. Eventually he reaches his goal, pushing her skirts up. “Aye,” he murmurs, “And I’ll be content to share her sin.” 


	5. v.

He is some aging lord or another with wine on his breath and lust in his eyes. Melisandre does not care about this stranger, nor does she feel a real need to converse with him. 

 _The king, on the other hand_ …his gaze is livid and sharp from across the great hall, blue eyes narrowed in suspicion.  _Good._  The priestess turns back to the old lord, very deliberately. She makes a show of accepting his flirtations, even allows the unpleasant man to brush his drunken hand against her knee. 

It is not long before Justin Massey approaches with a nervous smile. She knows what he will say long before he opens his mouth.  _His Grace requires your presence, my lady. Removed from the feast._  

_Of course he does._

Melisandre is calm as she rises and excuses herself from the room, scarlet silks swirling and rustling about her. Yet the moment she rounds the deserted corridor, iron hands pin her against the wall. 

“The Smiler may take his leave,” Stannis says evenly, staring down at her with that furious gaze. Ser Justin attempts a jape before wisely hurrying away. 

Melisandre watches the blonde knight amble back to the hall, wishing she could join him in the distant candlelight. A sudden pain jolts her from her musing. She struggles instinctively, but finds no escape.  _What— ?_  It is then she realises the king has her prisoner, his teeth raking down her throat without mercy. “Such passion is rare from you,” she breathes, taken aback.

This seems to incite him further. He grasps her hips in imposing hands, trapping her against the stone to bite a harsh trail down her throat. Blue-black stubble scratches her, and sharp teeth, then lips meant to soothe the stinging skin. The pale length of her neck reddens and purples. She knows she’ll be unable to hide all the damage beneath her ruby choker. 

After a tense moment, she attempts to bolt away once more. Stannis catches her waist and pushes her back against the wall. The movement is so sudden that the breath is knocked from her. “Sire— ”

“Hold still,” he orders, digging his fingers into her red-clad thigh.

She scowls up at him with fiery eyes. “So you can maul me like a beast?”

Maddened, he catches a fistful of her coppery hair. “You did not seem to mind that inebriated fool  _mauling_   _you_.”

Melisandre pouts at the accusation, but it cannot conceal her coy smile. “I did not expect you to take the bait with such enthusiasm…” He says nothing, only renews his efforts. Before long he is dragging her body against his obvious arousal. “Gentle, my king,” she chides. “Will you leave no part of me unbruised?”

Something akin to regret flashes through his eyes, but it is quickly overtaken by simmering desire. He lowers his head to kiss the damage he’s created. “My lady will forgive me. But I’ll not stop leaving marks until I’m sure everyone knows she’s mine.” 

The priestess does not object. Nor does anyone else when they return to the great hall, though the ladies whisper and giggle, and every man keeps an ocean’s distance from her. 

 


	6. vi.

He was scowling. His teeth snapped together as he walked, like a feral animal on the hunt.

Melisandre ignored this for some time—it was not unusual behaviour for the king, after all. Her hand simply wound tighter around his arm, while her eyes admired the vast white landscape on either side of the Wall. 

Eventually, however, even the howling wind could not drown out the sound of Stannis grinding his teeth. “Is anything the matter, your Grace?” 

“I wish you would dress more appropriately for this wasteland.”

Her lips only curled up further. “You know I am immune to such elements.”

“Others are not,” Stannis muttered. 

The red priestess considered him from the corner of her eye. “Someone has offended you.”

He sighed unnecessarily long. It took a full minute to grit the words out. “I can’t stand how they’re looking at you.”

Lady Melisandre had witnessed incredible things in her years—heard and glimpsed and felt miracles and prophecies and premonitions from R’hllor himself. Yet nothing had prepared her for  _this_. “Who?” she finally managed. 

He jerked his head toward different posts along the edge of the Wall. “Them. The brothers. My swords. This lord or that knight.  _All of them._ ” 

Again, she was astounded. “Let them stare,” she replied, tugging him to turn and walk back to the lift. “Let them whisper. The words of men are nothing.”

The king seemed even more offended. “I didn’t mean  _that_.” 

“Then what?”

Now it was he who considered her with those dark blue eyes. “You truly don’t know what they’re thinking as they leer at you? How they imagine what’s beneath that gown?” 

Melisandre flushed slightly. “Of course I know—it does not—” He pulled her roughly into the lift, glaring menacingly at the brother in black who was tasked with lowering them.

On the journey down, the wind whistled around them, and her voice cut through the air like a song. “You should not worry yourself. There is only one I serve…” Stannis was still scowling. She turned and inched up against him, coaxing his arms about her slender waist. “Is that not true, my king?” Her lips pressed against his ear, and finally his hands slid down to grip her hips. “Anyone can look…but touch?”

Her burning figure pulled back so she might undo her gown. He protested, of course, warning her that they were nearly descended, but she simply parted the red silk enough to expose the front of her body. “Who sees this? While those green boys are fantasising, who has the reality?” A moment passed in breathless silence. She slowly laced her gown back up, eyes never leaving his. “Only one. One has the right to my bed, to undress me and seek his pleasure. To kiss me on the lips…or wherever he desires.” 

His own gaze swept over her curves, cutting even through the silk. “Do you recall the evening we battled the Wildlings?” he asked darkly. The look in her eyes told him she did. “If it’s my right, I want you like that again.”

The lift jolted against the icy ground, but they did not move. “On top, you mean?” she whispered. He offered no answer, only tugged her by the hand. 

They ran the entire way to the King’s Tower.


	7. vii.

It was all still new to Stannis—the pressing of bodies, the warmth of her skin and lips (and other parts he blushed to consider now), the frenzied longing both thrilling and terrifying. She made an urgent sound against his neck, and in an instant his body was betraying him, endlessly warring against the sensibilities of his mind. 

Never could there be a more turbulent war than the internal one prompted by a priestess visiting his tent. Worse was the fact that  _he_  incited the battle by calling upon her each night.

Melisandre settled deeper in his lap, if that were possible, hips of red silk wriggling against his. He wondered how he’d ever allowed this to go so far—rather, how it had continued past those two times of necessity.  _You are godless to the core, yet the moment you become king, you deign to exploit your priestess?_

Nay, it was  _she_  who made an art of exploitation!

 _A child’s excuse_ , his conscience insisted, even as she bared pale thighs and pressed fevered kisses to his skin.

“Stop,” he grit out.

“My king?” 

Large hands captured her hips, abruptly, reflexively, desperate to escape the friction in his lap. “Stop. I—cannot.”

Melisandre leaned back, ever acquiescing. Her face was kissed by the colours of the fire as she did so—one side rosy and warm, the other hidden in shadow. “Would you rather me beneath?”

He cursed and tossed her off him. The priestess landed gracefully enough on his pallet, but not far enough away. Blood was thrumming like molten steel through his veins, lust crawling beneath his skin.  _Clawing_. “Leave and cease to visit, no matter how forcefully I call for you.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Surely, sire, I am not meant to disobey my king?” 

His fingers dug painfully into his knees. “You are, damn you. In this particular matter, you are.” To his surprise the woman seemed genuinely bothered.

“You are being a fool,” she complained.

His blue eyes narrowed in warning. “Hold your tongue and do as I say, insolent thing.”

Instead, she ducked her fiery head to kiss his neck. “You feel shame? Still?” 

He shuddered at the warmth of her lips. “I will not become some carnal savage like my brother.” The king tried to rise to straighten his clothing, but she thwarted him with those maddening hands. 

“We have spoken at length how it is no sin,” she murmured. Somehow she worked her way into his lap again, warm and coaxing as fire itself. “What is this truly about?”

“It’s not right to you,” he blurted. A long moment passed in silence, and for once she seemed unsure how to respond. “You are my advisor, a priestess besides. It is unfair to…take advantage.”

“Can you not tell I’m willing, sire?” 

He could, or at least he convinced himself he could, each time he felt the slickness between her thighs. “You’d not be, were I not your precious Azor Ahai,” he snapped. “Don’t bother with sweet words. I’m too old for empty flattery.” 

“You’ve not even reached your thirty-fifth nameday,” she pointed out. 

His teeth ground sharply against one another. “Old enough to know I don’t drive women mad with desire.”

In the corner of the pavilion, a flame leapt high into the air, crackling and hissing in a brief dance. Melisandre sighed up at him. “Must I truly return to my tent and content myself with mine own fingers?”

“ _Woman_ — ” 

“Don’t wake Devan,” she said lowly.

His groan was swallowed into a kiss. The red minx took the opportunity to shift her hips against his once more, and this time the king could not hold back. Perhaps her words  _were_  for his benefit, perhaps he was shamefully weak and corrupt of spirit, but  _gods be damned._  What else could he do but drown in her? 

To his satisfaction, she purred when he flipped her onto her back. Her heat was clenching all around him, ankles locking around his waist, soft thighs embracing the harsh lines of his body. “Please, my king…” He was inside her before he could even entertain doubts and fears. “Oh,” she breathed.

Stannis allowed his eyes to fall shut, determined to control his movements and bring her pleasure. “Tell me how it can be—enjoyable for you.”

“It already is,” she panted.

“Tell me,” he insisted. “What do you need—to— ”

She tightened her limbs around him. “I only need you. I only  _want_  you.” 

Her words defeated any rational thought left. He drove into her hard enough to rattle the pallet, such that Devan would surely be stirring across the royal pavilion.  _Gods forbid the lad dare to peek around the filmy partition._ His bannermen already lamented her as a reckless distraction; Davos was newly pious for fear of her, praying to the Mother for protection. 

_And how could she be so destructive, as they claimed, when she made him feel alive? How could she seduce him with a black, serpentine spell when she shone brighter than copper?_

He buried his face into her red hair, savouring the scent of smoke and spiceflower that was so uniquely  _her_. “Say it again.”

“I want you, I need you…”

 _And I you_ , he thought, giving himself to the fire. 


	8. ix.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt:** "Stannis and Melisandre /Smut. At castle black,black brothers hear her moans and whisper"

“She moans pretty, that one.”

Ty glanced at his passing brother in black, then continued pressing his ear to the door. “Don’t be fooled. Her mouth is dirtier than my chamberpot. I been listening here an hour now.”

“Eh?”

“Put down that wood and hear for yourself.”

“Move over, then.” Sweet Donnel shook yellow locks from his face and strained his head toward the wall. After a minute, a quiet chortle escaped his mouth. “By gods, you’re right.”

“What? What’s she saying now?”

“Screaming, more like.  _Oh, oh,_ ” Donnel made a girlish voice, “ _it won’t all fit in my—_ ” 

“Shh!”

_“Plough me like a virgin field!”_

“Hah! You made that bit up.”

“ _Harder, I beg you! Yes, yes, I want it deep!_   _Oh—_  She keeps praying to the red god. With good reason, maybe. Her bedmate sounds like he’ll die before he spills his seed. Poor lucky bastard.” 

“What I tell ya? Gives a brothel performance, that one.”

“ _That one_  is a priestess.” The stewards whipped around, fumbling with their forgotten firewood. Jon Snow narrowed his dark eyes. “This is the King’s Tower, Donnel Hill, and I see little reason for you to be here. Either of you.”

“Standing sentry, m’lord,” Ty offered. 

The lord commander squinted. “What? You’re royal guards now, are you? Go join Owen atop the Wall.” 

Donnel flashed an easy smile, pushing his black brother aside. “Here’s the truth, Lord Snow. I’ve had less duties with Ser Mallador gone. So these southron squires always want us bringing firewood, like we’re a bunch ‘a lost whipping boys.”

“Then you should focus on those duties for our honoured guests.Where are the real guards?”

“Not here…” Ty snorted, head ducked. “Seems the priestess slipped away for some rutting. A man’s been dipping his wick in her, better part of the day now.”

Snow grimaced at the door. “That would be the _king,”_  he said flatly. 

As if on cue, there was an abrupt, violent clamour from within. All three men of the Night’s Watch froze in horror. The king came staggering out a moment later, half-dressed and nursing a bloody nose. 

“Your Grace,” Jon exclaimed. 

A flurry of red was not far behind, pale skin barely covered. “ _Natural order of things_ ,” the priestess fumed. She pelted Stannis with his own leather jerkin. “There’s your  _natural order of things!_ ” 

Stannis groaned, shielding his face. “Gods, woman, you’re a wildcat!” 

“Next time don’t open your mouth to complain.”

“I have a right to! I’ll not be ridden like a mare, Melisandre, with a bridle to match!”

“Oh, but  _I_  must? It’s more proper that a woman is on bottom?” Melisandre jerked her knee directly up into his groin. “That came from properly  _beneath you_ ,” she hissed. The king doubled over as she stalked back into her rooms, releasing a new string of curses. 

None of the black brothers dared move, instead following Melisandre’s fiery form with incredulous gazes. Once she had slammed the door shut, Jon glanced at the king with a wry expression. “The  _‘natural order of things?’_ ”

“’Twas the wrong choice of words,” Stannis muttered, clutching his middle. “Ones my lady did not appreciate.” Behind greasy black hair, Ty had begun to snicker. The king’s blue gaze turned lethal once he noticed their small crowd. “Out, ugly wretches, before I mount your heads!”

The stewards tripped over themselves to descend, but Jon lingered on the stair with a smirk. “Shall you be needing new accommodations, Sire?” 

Stannis spat blood on the ground. “Snow, I will carve that giggling tongue from your throat!” 


	9. x.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompts:** sphallolalia | "Stannis and Mel touching each other in public behind the table"

“Do that again, I dare you.” A few seconds passed. _“Melisandre—!”_

“You dared me.”

“It was meant to be a threat, not an invitation,” Stannis groaned.

His devious priestess kept her red gaze forward, considering the rows of lords and knights dining before them. “Do you think they know?” she wondered.

“Know what?”

Melisandre snuck a coy smile his way. “That my foot is where it is?”

Stannis groaned and reached beneath the table to untangle her leg from his. “Where are your shoes, woman? I know you came in here dressed properly.”

“I might say the same for you,” she giggled into her wine, “before your clothing came undone.” He grimaced, glancing down to ensure he was securely fastened once more, and that all their mischief had been concealed by the table dressing. 

It was not long before a pale hand stole back into his lap. “Melisandre,  _I swear by all the gods.”_

“You will be praying with no luck. In the meantime my free hand will be in your breeches.”

To her vocal displeasure, Stannis wrested the gold goblet from her. “I think you’ve had enough,” he said sternly.

“Your Grace!” 

The king’s head snapped up, blue eyes searching for the source of Justin Massey’s voice. “What is it, Smiler?” He roughly extracted the female hand from his lap.

Ser Justin rose from one of the higher tables, slightly off balance. “We humbly inquire if we might borrow the Lady Melisandre’s company for an hour.” There were enthusiastic cheers from his companions, all queen’s men with blazing hearts imprinted on their chests. “Ser Richard— ” The blonde snorted and the table began to quake with laughter— “Ser Richard had a jape— ”

“No,” the king said flatly. 

“Oh, please,” Melisandre pouted, cheeks flushed with wine. 

“Sit down, all of you.” 

Ser Justin raised a goblet to the priestess. “Another time, then, my lady!”

After his men had found another distraction, Stannis pinched his nose, teeth grinding together. “This is why I don’t allow raucous revelry in my halls.”

Melisandre had slunk slightly in her chair, looking unusually disgruntled, but she now perked up like a red doe. “I am joining them,” she announced. 

The king caught her leg in an iron grip. “No, you are  _not.”_

“You give me no amusement,” she complained, pushing at his wrist with both hands.

Stannis regarded her struggles with something akin to amusement. “And you begin things you cannot finish, teasing me in a public place.” 

Melisandre’s eyes widened as his hand slid up her thigh. “What are you doing?” 

“Nothing at all,” he answered truthfully. And his hand moved no further, simply resting at the juncture of her thighs. After a moment she began to squirm, but discovered that this only tightened his hold. “You’re keeping me on edge,” she realised, more breathless by the second. 

The king smirked. “And I will keep you there all night.”


	10. xi.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt:** "could you write some stannisxmel smut involving a bathtub?? making out or more, I don't really mind, whatever you want"

Stannis knew it was meant to be a holy kind of cleansing, a simple ritual in preparation for her nightfires. But there was something painfully alluring about his priestess immersed in water. 

 _For a lady so enamoured with fire she seems a natural siren in the bath._  Stannis might have laughed, but he wasn’t one to laugh, and he really  _couldn’t_  with the priestess sprawled atop him. “Melisandre,” he prompted, hoping to rouse her from her languid state.

The water creature made a noise and stretched instead. Pale toes peeked lazily above the surface. “Hmph,” she sighed, then sunk even deeper. 

The king was further trapped for it. His broad shoulders were the only thing supporting them against the edge of the basin, a tangle of limbs occupying the rest of their confined space. “My chest is cramping,” he complained. ****

“Are you calling me heavy of figure?”

The king shifted, blue eyes crinkling up in a way that amused her. “Certainly not. It’s just—I’m—surely we’re clean enough for your god now. My skin is shriveling up like a fish at market.”

Melisandre laughed her lilting laugh. “My poor king! You require more bathing yet. This must be a  _thorough_  cleansing…” Her rump ground squarely against his raging arousal.

 _She knows,_ he realised.  _The devious little wench!_

His priestess took the opportunity to twist in his lap, hips straddling his so she could splay delicate white hands over his chest. Little rivulets of water trickled down his muscles as she kissed him, tongue seeking his out with a rare hunger. He groaned when her teeth scraped the stubble at his throat. “I may well perish here…”

“Mm. At least put that hard thing inside me before you perish.”

A wild growl escaped his chest. His hands fell roughly upon her hips in an attempt to grasp her, but it was not an easy task—her skin was like a slippery canvas draped over him. Melisandre was slender at some parts and thick in others, her curves so soft and pliant against the iron lines of his body. The thought hardened him to the point of pain. “Sit yourself down on me,” he demanded. 

She knew what he liked. She knew precisely how to move her body, which noises drove him insane, just where to put her lips and hips at just the right time. Melisandre watched him with a heavy-lidded gaze, red eyes that did not close even as lifted herself and slid back down, burying him inside her with exquisite slowness. “ _Fuck_ ,” he cursed. Everything burned around him—the water of the bath, the overflow of candles in her chamber, every inch of his priestess and  _the slick heaven surrounding his cock—_

“Stannis,” she breathed again and again.

He came abruptly, the force of his release a violent thing. And still she was panting above him, moving with such determination that the brass basin thumped against the floor. Pleasure finally washed over her in shuddering waves, and then Melisandre melted against him, a sated smile on her lips. Where sweat and water and seed began or ended was an uncomfortable mystery. That did not stop his priestess from slipping down and cleaning him off with soapy fingers (and later, sly strokes of her tongue). 

By the time she curled back into his chest, her coppery hair was soaked and clinging to her cheeks. The sight brought a crooked smile to Stannis’s face. He couldn’t help but press a kiss to her damp shoulder, all the while musing that his priestess’s notion of spiritual cleansing was a queer one indeed.


	11. xii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt:** "grinding on each other"

“This is not— ” His ears turned the colour of beetroot. She loved when that happened. 

“Not what?”

“Not good,” Stannis grit out. He tried to pry her hips away from his. “You are standing too close.”

“Hm,” the priestess turned so that her bottom was brushing his groin. “Is this better?”

“Woman—!”

Melisandre shifted her hips back until she could feel him, hard and digging into her bottom. “I don’t think this displeases you as much as you claim.”

 _“Melisandre.”_  The tips of his ears were positively scarlet now.  _That will appease R’hllor,_  she thought. 

“Yes, my king?” Her hips rocked almost imperceptibly. She smiled at the hiss that escaped his clenched jaw.

“Good gods, woman! You said you needed to discuss something!”

The priestess captured his hands in her smaller white ones, coaxing them to the red silk covering her hips. “Did you believe that?” she giggled. “It was the only way to lure you to my bedchamber in broad daylight.”

Rough fingers dug painfully into her curves. Finally he groaned and brought her body back hard against his chest. “Minx.” 

Her red eyes sparked with delight. She shifted her hips up and then back down, feeling him grow even more rigid beneath his doublet. 

“Do that again,” he growled. 

Melisandre turned her head so she could study his tortured face, then repeated the tantalising motion, slow and firm. “Like that, my king?”

His grip turned bruising, fingers nearly tearing her fiery silks in his desperation. “Again,” he said darkly. 

The priestess let him see the triumphant curve of her lips this time. “You will feel dreadfully sticky if you spend your seed this way.”

His teeth ground together for a tense, hesitant moment. Finally Stannis cursed and threw her carelessly over his shoulder. She quaked with laughter as he strode over to her bed, cheeks rosy with excitement when he tossed her onto its furs.

“Your Grace— ?”

The king froze before clamping a hand to Melisandre’s mouth, glaring at the door behind which his squire waited. They had forgotten about poor Devan. “Not now, Devan. I am—occupied.”

“Very well Sire,” came the steward’s voice, hesitant and muffled behind the door. Melisandre bit the king’s finger, then slid it into her mouth. He groaned. In the midst of the interruption she had managed to wrangle him beneath her. “Sire,” Devan piped up again, “shall I— ”

“Devan! Take a gods damned walk!”

After the footsteps had receded, Melisandre smiled down at the disheveled king. “What a sight you make.”

“My priestess,” Stannis said dryly, “is very bad.” 

She wriggled her hips in response, rolling them slowly against his. “You are the one stabbing me all this time. Is that a dagger?”

“And her mouth is horribly wicked…”

“Your dagger is horribly sharp.”

His hands were the ones guiding her hips now, forcing them to grind into his lap. “Melisandre, you will drive me to madness with that tongue.” 

“You may be sure of that in a moment,” she purred. “My weapon is not concealed, you may as well take yours out too.” 


End file.
